


The Five Times They Weren't; Until They Were

by tresa_cho



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: 5+1 Things, Action/Adventure, BAMFs, Drama, Multi, Parenthood, Single Parents, Slow Build, Threesome - F/M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-10
Updated: 2013-10-12
Packaged: 2017-12-26 06:03:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 7,684
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/962472
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tresa_cho/pseuds/tresa_cho
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Papa Stilinski's life plan never included getting smooched by the creature from the Black Lagoon. It also didn't really include a son running with werewolves on a monthly basis. And it definitely didn't include falling for the man hunting those werewolves, or his closest friend.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Time They Felt Each Other Out

_1._

Stiles whimpered and shifted under John's hand. His heart beat a frantic thrum under John's palm, but he was asleep, and that's what mattered.

John tipped his head back against the sofa, exhaling. On the other end of the couch, Melissa held Scott curled in her arms. The boy was dead asleep, soft snores relieving the agony of Stiles' frightened gasps. John caught Melissa's eyes and tried to give her a brave smile. He isn't sure he succeeded.

“Thank you.”

John shifted his gaze to the third family in his home. Chris Argent sat on the floor, wrapped in every blanket John could pull from the closets. His daughter, Allison, was snug in his arms. She slept silently, without moving a muscle. Trained that way, no doubt.

“Mine was closest,” John said by way of explanation. Stiles shifted again, his arm flailing out over the edge of the couch. John gently tucked it back against his son's side, his shoulder twinging in protest. “You're more than welcome here. If you need to...”

Argent nodded, his lips pressed into a fine line. His fingers were threaded through Allison's hair. “I'm sorry. This wasn't supposed to happen.”

“What?” Melissa asked softly. Her voice was barely a murmur in the dim light of John's family room.

“I thought we could contain it,” Argent said. He leaned back against the one armchair in the room. “I thought I could stop the sacrifices from spilling into Beacon Hills.”

“What do you really do?” John asked. He ran his knuckles through Stiles' hair, hoping to calm him in his slumber.

“I hunt,” Argent said. He rolled his head to look at John. In the dim moonlight streaming into the window, his irises looked silver. “I hunt things that go bump in the night.”

“That's not cryptic at all,” John said. Okay. He had a right to be cranky. He had been kidnapped and stuffed in a root cellar for hours and then the whole thing had almost crushed him to death. Oh also, he had kissed the creature from the Black Lagoon. In front of his son. He was allowed to be cranky.

Especially since he seemed to be the only one not in the know.

“Werewolves exist.” Argent started, dropping his eyes to his daughter. “They exist and they are dangerous. My family and others like us have hunted them for centuries.”

“Why are you _here_?” Melissa's voice came sharp and louder than before. “Are you hunting?”

Stiles snorted, and woke with a start. He kicked out, nudging Scott, before realising where he was. He looked up from where his head was pillowed on John's thigh, and groaned.

“Dad?”

“Go back to sleep, son,” John said. He shot Melissa a firm glare, and she bit her lower lip, guilty. “I'm here.”

Stiles didn't need to be told twice. He turned his head into the warmth of John's body and fell right back asleep.

“Sorry,” Melissa mouthed. John shook his head and turned his attention to Argent.

“Are you here hunting?” John pressed.

“We were at first, but things changed,” Argent said. He nodded at Melissa. “My daughter and your son had a... thing. And it turns out that not all monsters are supernatural. And not all the supernatural are monsters.”

“Just a good portion,” John surmised. Argent shrugged, slouched against the chair. Exhaustion lined every curve of his body, and he was clearly flagging. “Sleep.”

“Easier said than done,” Argent said. A wry smile curled his lips.

“I'll keep watch,” John said. “It's safe. It's over.”

“Yeah.” Argent nodded off, quite literally. His head dropped to the side and his hand went slack against Allison's hair.

John turned to Melissa, who winced.

“You _knew_ about this?” John hissed. “And you didn't _tell me_?”

“It wasn't mine to tell,” Melissa snapped back, her voice low. “They thought they were protecting us.”

“They're _children_ , Melissa,” John said, using his best whisper-yell. “They don't protect us. We. Protect. Them.”

“We don't know anything about this world, John,” Melissa pushed back. “How can we protect them against... against _this_?”

“Get a room,” Stiles grunted, shifting. He slapped John's leg gently before falling back asleep. John sighed heavily.

“Go to sleep, Melissa,” John said wearily. He dragged a hand over his face and slumped in the couch.

Melissa tucked herself further around Scott and dropped off silently and quickly. John found it harder to let himself go. Everything from the last few months was finally clicking into place. The animal attacks, the spike in murders and 'accidental' deaths, and the unending miscellany of crossbow bolts and shell casings that had started to litter the Preserve. Probably from Argent and his kind.

And Stiles, at the scene of every gruesome murder in the last six months. It made sense, now. John still didn't like it. Didn't like that even for a second he thought Stiles had committed them or been involved in some way. The guilt festered in his chest like a living thing, pulsing every time he looked at his son. He had betrayed him.

Sure, Stiles had lied to him, but John was the one who had thought the worst. The one who had assumed, because he didn't have enough facts to conclude. And damn if Stiles wasn't right. Claudia would have slapped John for the way he had handled Stiles' confession. Hell, John felt like slapping himself.

He had to do better.

Now that he was trusted with the information, he had to do better. He would help Stiles with whatever he was struggling with. He was a god damn cop. He had to be able to do something.

John nudged Argent with his toe, and Argent came awake without a sound, his eyes immediately on John's.

“I want you to teach me,” John said. Argent stared at him. “I need to know what we're up against.”

Argent nodded slowly, and then went back to sleep. John tipped his head back and stared at the ceiling. Under his hand, Stiles breathed deeply.


	2. The Time They Ached Together

_2._

Stiles' nightmares are nothing compared to Allison's night terrors.

John and Argent are standing over a map of... lines? Argent told him the name, but John couldn't bring it to mind at that exact second. Honestly, he was still kind of hung up on the werewolf thing, even though he'd had weeks to adjust to it. Weeks to teach an old dog new tricks.

It wasn't easy.

A blood-curdling shriek sliced through the air between them, and Argent was off, out of sight before John could even process _Allison_.

He followed Argent at a quick pace, trotting down the hall towards their bedrooms. He was determined not to feel awkward about following Argent into his daughter's bedroom, but he had to see if she needed help. If Argent needed help.

Allison was thrashing against her father, screaming bloody murder as she kicked all her sheets off her bed. John rounded the bed on her other side, and just missed grabbing her wrist.

She punched her father, landing a solid upper cut with the heel of her hand. Argent lurched, dazed for a brief moment, and John grabbed Allison's face in both hands.

“Allison,” he said, his voice sharp. She cried and kicked, but John held on. “ _Allison_.”

She gasped, and recognition spread in her eyes. Panting, she looked around her room. “Mr Stilinski... What-”

“You were having a nightmare,” John said. He slowly released her and let her sink back against her pillows. “Do you remember anything?”

Allison dragged in deep, steadying breaths, and her hand reached for her father. Argent gripped her hand tightly, ignoring his split lip as he pulled a hand through her hair.

“I think it's time you talk to me, Allison,” Argent said. He was using his Dad-voice, but it was softened with concern.

Allison stared up at him with wide eyes, and noticed the blood on his mouth. She touched his chin carefully, and winced. “Did I do that?”

Argent nodded. Nothing accusatory. Just a pure statement of fact. And he waited. Waited with a patience that God had not given John Stilinski. Waited until Allison covered her eyes with her hands.

“Does this have something to do with the night at the root cellar?” Argent asked.

“We... used a spell to help you,” Allison said. She sighed and tossed her hands over her head. She looked so young, not her almost eighteen years of age. “It required an equal sacrifice.”

“'We'?” Argent asked.

“Scott, Stiles, and I,” Allison said. “Deaton said there would be a darkness in our hearts after it, that we would carry for the rest of our lives. I didn't know what he meant.”

“Stiles' nightmares started after the root cellar,” John said. “I thought it was just a result of the trauma.”

Allison shook her head. “And... There's nightmares and... I always feel so helpless... I don't know what my head's doing to me... but I can't stop it.”

“Okay. It's okay.” Argent swept his daughter into his arms and pressed a kiss to the top of her head. “I'm here for you.”

“I know.” Allison clung to her father, still shaking.

John quietly made his exit. The scene was between father and daughter, much too intimate for him to impose on. He found his way into the kitchen and helped himself to a glass of water. If Stiles was struggling with this darkness... He was keeping it from John. Again. More secrets.

Sighing, John rubbed his forehead. Stiles was just trying to keep him from worrying. But he was a parent. It was his job description to worry. About girls, about college, about grades, and, if need be, about werewolves. He was supposed to worry about his son. It was his job.

Argent emerged from his daughter's room some time later, looking worn out. He stood beside John at the sink and poured himself a drink. John couldn't help but wonder if he needed something stronger than tap water.

“You've got, erm, red on you,” John said. He gestured to Argent's lip. The man licked his lip and winced, as if he had forgotten about it.

“I taught her that one,” Argent said. “I'm glad she knows how to use it.”

“C'mere.” John wet a paper towel and turned Argent towards him. He carefully brushed the damp cloth over dried blood, gentle as he used to be with Stiles. “What did she mean, 'equal sacrifice'?”

“They died for us,” Argent said.

Well.

John's hand stilled. “Excuse me?”

Argent closed his eyes. “If the child is dead, the parent can no longer be the guardian. They were trying to remove our status to make us useless to the Darach.”

“Oh. That's the... Black Lagoon thing, right?” John said.

“Her name was Jennifer, and she was human,” Argent said. “They died for us. And it left a stain on their souls because they were brought back. And now they're suffering.”

John's phone buzzed. He glanced at it. The incoming call was from Melissa. Argent nodded at him, taking the paper towel from his hands to press to his lip. John picked up the call. “Hello?”

“John, Scott just clawed through his arm in his sleep. What do I do?” Melissa's voice was rushed and breathless.

“Is he all right?”

“He's... There was a lot of blood, but he's already healed.” She hesitated. “This isn't the first time. It's been going on for weeks now. I thought it would fade but...”

“Tell her she can come over,” Argent said. John started. He was close. Very close.

“John? Who is that?”

“Chris Argent says you can come over. We have something we need to talk to you about,” John said.

“O-Okay,” Melissa said, dragging the word out. “I'll be there in a few.”

John opened the door for her when she arrived, clutching her jacket around her pajamas. He ushered her in and Argent handed her a cup of tea. She smiled in gratitude, and they sat her down to tell her what Allison had divulged. She took it in stride, really, going pale at first and gripping her mug like a lifeline.

“This is just... so wrong on so many levels,” she said when Argent finished talking. “These are our children.”

“They're young adults, Ms McCall,” Argent said.

“Melissa,” she countered. He smiled slightly.

“Melissa,” he acknowledged. He stood and refilled her tea, moving around the kitchen to keep his hands busy. John understood the feeling well. He couldn't very well shoot Allison's nightmares. He could only deal with the aftermath. And it was rough for a man so used to physically dealing with his problems.

“Sorry.” Allison's soft voice drew their eyes from the small dining table. She stood in the threshold of the kitchen, hair sleep-tousled and clutching her overlarge pajama top close. She barely looked her seventeen years, and John's protective instincts flared something awful. “I heard you talking. Maybe I can answer some questions?”

“You should be in bed,” Argent said from his place at the sink.

Allison shrugged. “I can't sleep. I'd rather help somehow.”

Argent barely repressed his sigh, and gestured to the table. Allison sat, and Argent put a steaming mug in her hands. She smiled gratefully. Melissa reached across the table and put her hand over Allison's. “How can we help you?”

Allison worried her lower lip and tucked her hair behind her ears. “I... I don't know. Honestly. This is new to us, too, and Deaton told us after that he'd never seen the experiment successful before-”

Glass shattered in the sink, and John was on his feet before Argent could curse. John moved to his side and ran Argent's sliced fingers under cold water. Blood swirled down the drain in pinkish ribbons. Argent breathed hard beside him, the hoarse pants of someone just barely keeping their cool.

John grabbed some paper towels and shut the water off. He wrapped the towels around Argent's fingers and squeezed, reassuringly. Argent met his eyes and John's breath stuttered.

“Thank you,” Argent said quietly. So his daughter couldn't hear.

“You're welcome...” John hesitated. Argent smiled.

“Chris,” he offered.

They turned to see Melissa guiding Allison back to her room, an arm around her shoulders. Chris relaxed visibly against the sink, and John smiled.

“Melissa's good at that,” John said. “Nurse, you know.”

“I think...” Chris paused, trying to find the right words. “I think that's what Allison needs right now. Victoria and I... We aren't very good with... _that_.”

He gestured to Melissa's retreating back and sort of hunched in on himself. His hands pressed the paper towels tight to skin as red started to soak through. “We're more fixers than care-givers. Victoria was at a loss if you couldn't talk your way out of a problem. And me... Well, I like a nine millimeter in my hand.”

“Claudia was good at it, too,” John said. “I'd always try but... Inevitably say something horrible and send Stiles crying to his mother. I'm sorry about your wife.”

Chris said nothing, his eyes distant and his face pale.


	3. The Time They Acted Together

_3._

John blinked and missed it.

Alonso McCall hadn't even closed his mouth before Chris shoved him against the wall hard enough to rattle the picture frames, fists gripped tight in the front of his pressed suit. Alonso grunted, instinctively grabbing at Chris' lapels.

“Chris-” Melissa's hands were over her mouth, eyes wide.

“If you ever come sniffing around here without permission again, I will have you arrested for breaking and entering,” Chris said. His voice was a dangerous, low snarl, something John had never heard before. It wasn't like Chris to lose his cool like this. John stepped forward, but Chris kept talking. “You may be FBI, but even you have rules and I know every single one of them, my friend.”

“I'll have you know I have a key-” Alonso started.

“A key that you illegally duplicated, according to the local locksmith,” Chris said with an evil smile. Alonso stiffened, paling. “That's right. I have connections. Just like you.”

Christ stepped back and squared his shoulders. “You have ten seconds to get your sorry ass out that door. Leave the key.”

Alonso straightened the front of his suit with a scowl. He tossed the key at Chris, who stepped aside and let it hit the floor as if he couldn't be bothered to touch it. Alonso cast a foul look at John, who had done nothing through the entire confrontation, and left without a word.

When John turned his attention back to Melissa, Chris was at her side. “Did he hurt you?”

“No, no. He just wouldn't _leave_ ,” Melissa said shakily. “And I know his buddies are out there. I panicked. I don't know-”

“It's all right, Melissa,” John said. He relaxed his hand on his weapon.

“I'm so sorry, John, I didn't mean to drag you into this-”

“It's okay,” John said over her. He held up his hand. “You know I'll always come for you.”

She gazed at him, her eyes watering. She sniffed, straightened her shoulders, and pushed her hair back from her face. “Thank you both.”

“You should change the locks,” Chris suggested. Melissa scowled.

“I _did_. The first time he left. That obviously didn't stop him,” she said.

“Do it again. I'll pay for it,” Chris said. He glared darkly at the door.

“No, no, you aren't going to _pay_ for it-”

“I insist,” Chris said. “I can't stand people like him. A badge doesn't make them the ultimate authority.”

“Hey, now,” John said. Chris smirked at him.

“There are exceptions. Obviously.”

John found himself smiling back. The tension he had carried since getting Melissa's call eased away. The house was secure. Somehow Chris had made his way here, and John didn't want to think about him listening in on the police bands. Let alone his private cell phone. But if the NSA could do it...

“No offence, Chris, and don't think I'm not grateful, but why are you here?” Melissa asked.

“I have people watching your house,” Chris said, matter of factly. Melissa's jaw dropped. “Ever since Deucalion. Yours too, Sheriff, I hope you don't mind. It's just easier this way.”

“I mind. I definitely mind,” John said. Chris lifted an eyebrow.

“What do you know about fae, Sheriff?” Chris asked. John opened his mouth, confused, but Chris kept talking. “And witches? Have you ever staked a vampire? Would you be able to defend yourself and Stiles if a wendigo got into your house?”

“I'm pretty sure you were speaking English there, but I don't know what you just said,” John said.

“I told you that I'd train you, but until then let me protect you,” Chris said. He crossed his arms over his chest and tilted his head. “You have your specialty and I have mine.”

“Fine. Fine.” John grunted and rubbed his forehead wearily.

“Train? What train? Who is training?” Melissa asked. She pointed between Chris and John. “You're training him? Why? Why aren't you training me? Is it because I'm a woman?”

“No.” Chris looked shocked she had even suggested it. His eyes flickered between them. “In my profession, women hold a different role. They are the leaders. They plan raids and run families.”

Melissa folded her arms over her chest. She contemplated Chris, tilted her head, and finally nodded. “All right. I accept. Train me.”

“I'm sorry?”

“Train me.” Melissa jabbed her finger in Chris' sternum. “I want to help and I don't want Scott to ever-”

She cut herself off, pressing her lips into a fine line. She didn't have to finish. Any number of things would suffice. Die again. Be alone. Think there's no solution.

Chris regarded her solemnly before he nodded. “You both can come by then. Just call me when you can make it. It'll be easier with you together.”

He turned to leave, but Melissa jumped at him and awkwardly threw her arms around him. He stiffened visibly and Melissa hid her face in his arm.

“Thank you,” Melissa said. Her voice was muffled by Chris' jacket. He patted her curls slowly. John resisted a huff of laughter at them.

Chris caught his eyes and John nodded towards the door. Chris carefully extricated himself from Melissa's arms and squeezed her hand reassuringly.

Chris followed John into the crisp autumn night. John paused at his squad car and breathed deep. “Thanks,” he said.

“You couldn't exactly do it. Being in uniform,” Chris said. He leaned against the car and watched John. Watched him move, breathe. Like a predator, waiting for the chance to strike. Which was apt, he supposed.

“You...” John didn't have to finish. He knew. Chris was a reader by nature, he understood people. Their motives and reactions. He had gone after Alonso because he could clearly see that John wanted to. “Right.”

“I did it for her, too,” Chris said. “No one deserves to live in fear.”

“He wasn't abusive to her,” John said. “Not in the traditional sense. He... couldn't give her what she needed. What anyone needed, really. He liked making her dependent on him. The break up wasn't pretty.”

“I gathered,” Chris said. “And now he's back in town. Poking around Scott. What does he want with the boy?”

John huffed out a pathetic laugh. “I don't know. Years of nothing and all of a sudden he's breaking into Scott's room.”

“And my house,” Chris said, tense beside him.

“I guess now that Scott's getting to be an adult he wants to have some sort of relationship with him,” John said. “I don't know. I'm glad I don't know. I will never understand why that man did what he did. How he could leave his own child-”

“Men like you are few and far between, Sheriff,” Chris said in a low voice.

“For the love of Pete, Chris. Call me John.” John chuckled. “I think you've earned that right. Protecting our kids the last year. You've definitely passed the 'Sheriff' thing.”

Chris smiled. “I've got your back, John. Don't worry.”

“How do you deal with it?” John asked. “With Allison being out there with... Werewolves?”

“I'm out there with her,” Chris said. He rubbed a hand over his buzz-cut. “I trained her and I'm the best. I know she's equipped to handle what's out there. And if she's not, then Scott is there. And I'm here.” He side-eyed John. “Don't tell her the part about Scott. I like to keep the kid on his toes.”

John smiled. “I hear you. If Stiles ever brought home a boy I think I'd have my shotgun so far up the guy's ass he wouldn't be able to move.”

To his surprise, Chris laughed. It was a great sound, one John wished he could hear more often. Chris was too solemn, too somber. Always at the ready, for anything. While that was a good trait to have, it had to be exhausting. “You should talk to your son,” Chris said. “About bringing boys home.”

“What?” John was caught off-guard. “What do you mean?”

“Oh no. You talk to Stiles,” Chris said, with a twinkle in his eye. “That is between father and son. Don't bring me into it.”

“What do you know?” John advanced into Chris' personal space. Chris laughed and ducked back, away, towards his car. “Tell me what you know! Chris! _Argent_!”


	4. The Time They Bled Together

“Stay with me. Focus, Chris. Come on.”

John was covered in blood. His hands slid in it as they worked the shirt back from Chris' shoulder, sticky and soaked in red. So very red.

“Missed... vitals-” Chris arced off the table, back bowing with such force John worried for one panicked moment that his spine would snap. Chris slumped against the table with a choked off cry of pain, and John revealed the wound.

“ _Jesus_...” John exhaled.

A massive barb jutted out from Chris' shoulder, a result of the hit he took defending Stiles from a manticore. A _manticore_ on the Preserve. Chris was protecting _his son_.

“Take- out-” Chris grunted, reaching for it. John caught his hand and lowered it.

“I'm not doing anything without advice from a trained doctor. Or someone who knows how to deal with a freaking manticore wound,” John said.

The door opened and Alan Deaton swept in, followed by Melissa. John told himself the crushing relief he felt was for back-up, not seeing Melissa unharmed.

She snapped latex gloves on and quickly worked off the rest of Chris' shirt while Deaton examined the wound. With gloved hands, he carefully felt around the barb. Even as gentle as he was, Chris hissed in pain with the slightest motion. Deaton eyed Melissa. “We have to pull it out, and make sure no needles remain in the wound.”

She nodded and cast her eye at John. “You should leave.”

“Like hell,” John said. “He got this protecting Stiles.”

Her eyes softened before she set her jaw and tossed a pair of gloves at him. “Then hold him down.”

John switched places with her, hovering over Chris' unwounded side. He lightly tipped Chris' face towards him. “Eyes on me, bud.”

“This is gonna hurt,” Chris said, panting harshly.

“Yeah,” John said. He grabbed Chris' hand and held it against his chest. “Hold tight and keep your eyes on me, you hear?”

“Yeah-” His breath cut out with a gasp of pain. John held his head steady with a hand to his hair.

“Eyes on me, Chris,” John said. Out of the corner of his eye, Melissa and Deaton were readying to yank. “Look at me. That's it. Just-”

He was drowned out by Chris' hoarse cry of pain when Deaton dragged the barb out of his shoulder. It made a wet tearing as it came free and Chris choked off a cry as he slumped back against the cold table.

“Don't let it sting you,” Deaton said. “The needles on it's tail carry poison.”

“ _Poison_?” John hissed.

“Yes. That is why we must get all of them out, before more enters his bloodstream,” Deaton said, the beacon of calm. “My tweezers, if you please, Ms McCall.”

Melissa held the light over him as he worked. Chris stopped flinching after a while, too exhausted for his body to even instinctively respond. John kept a hand on Chris' forehead, wiping sweat back from his eyes as Deaton and Melissa worked. In the fluorescent light, Chris was pale and shivering.

“Eyes on me, Chris,” John encouraged. He gripped Chris' hand tightly. Chris' eyes flickered up at him, hazy and pained. “Atta boy.”

Chris smiled weakly and closed his eyes, his hand going slack in John's grasp. John forced his heart back where it belonged. He said, “He's out.”

“Good. There are a few deep ones, and the anesthesia I use isn't formulated for human physiology,” Deaton said. His voice was soft.

Melissa dragged the back of her arm over her forehead. “Do you need a rest, John?”

“I'm good. Keep going,” John said. He brushed his thumb over Chris' hairline, smoothing away a bit of blood.

He kept an eye on Chris' breathing while Melissa and Deaton finished whatever they were doing. When he finally looked up, the wound had been stitched and bandaged. Deaton was gone with the bloodied supplies, and Melissa tore off her gloves and disposed of them.

She rounded the examination table and moved behind John. Resting her hands on his shoulders, she started massaging gently at the nape of his neck. John groaned and leaned back into the touch. “You should rest,” he said.

“I was resting, until Scott called me about Chris.” Melissa dug her thumbs into John's muscle. “Nothing like digging translucent needles out of a dude's muscle tissue to get the blood flowing.”

John groaned again, exasperation this time.

“Oh. Figuratively. Not literally,” Melissa said quickly. “Though... There was quite a lot of blood.”

She quieted and leaned on John as they both stared at Chris. John reached up to cover her hand with his. Purely for reassurance. Really.

“Is he going to be all right?” John asked.

“It depends on how much poison got into his system,” Melissa said. She twisted her hand in his, lacing their fingers together.

“He's here because he was protecting Stiles,” John said. “It could be Stiles on that table.”

“It's not.” Melissa squeezed his shoulder. “That's why Chris runs with them. To protect them.”

Melissa stayed with him, a steady presence at his back as they kept their vigil. John had sat bedside for a few of his deputies, and each time was as hard as the first. He would never get used to it.

The door creaked open and Deaton leaned in. “I sent Allison home with Scott, I hope that's all right. He's too weak for visitors right now.”

John tensed slightly and Melissa leaned close. “Not you, Chief.”

Deaton left them alone again, and Melissa continued to smooth her fingers over John's shoulders, trying to loosen the tension. She hummed to fill the silence and John closed his eyes. Vigils were always easier shared.

Melissa quieted suddenly, and her hands left John's shoulder. He watched her lean over Chris and take his face in both hands. “He's burning up,” she said. “We have to keep his temperature down. I'll go see if Deaton keeps ice anywhere. Can you run a cool rag for me?”

John stood and went to the sink, grabbing a dry cloth from the counter. He wet it with cool water and returned to his chair by the table. Sure enough, a fine tremor had taken hold in Chris' muscles despite the sheen of sweat covering his skin. John carefully swept the cloth over Chris' forehead.

Melissa reentered the room with Deaton in tow, each carrying two bags of ice. Deaton set his bags on the ground at Melissa's feet while she split one of hers open, scattering clear bits of frozen water skittering on the table. She maneuvered them around, spreading them near and around Chris' body to cool the air around him and the surface he rested on.

“These will help with the fever. Unfortunately there is not much I can do for him, physically.” Deaton appeared at John's side with a bottle of powder in his hand. “Supernatural wounds are... tricky at the best of times.”

“He's going to be okay, though,” John prodded. “Right?”

Deaton eyed him cautiously, sizing him up. “It depends on how much poison entered his bloodstream.”

“I thought you said he was going to be fine.” John barely contained his frustration. Years of working with Deaton and he still could not fathom the man.

“I promised nothing of the sort, Sheriff,” Deaton said evenly. “Do you see that tub over there?”

John glanced over his shoulder to what appeared to be a rehabilitation tub for athletes, oblong and metallic. He nodded.

“Fill it with lukewarm water, if you please. We may need it in the very near future.”

John squeezed Chris' hand once before hauling himself up on stiff knees and making his way to the tub. For a long while, the only sound in the room was water splashing into the basin. When there was enough water for a full-grown man, John stopped the flow and returned to Chris' side.

Melissa moved a cool cloth over Chris' cheeks and throat, her lower lip pulled between her teeth. This close, once again, John saw that Chris' breathing was laboured, coming harsher than before. His skin was flushed and glistening with sweat. He couldn't stop himself from reaching out and brushing his knuckles along Chris' temple, trying to soothe.

To his surprise, Chris leaned into the touch and opened his eyes. Melissa leaned over him, a careful hand at his shoulder. “Chris, do you know who we are?”

Chris' face twisted in confusion and he glanced between them, unseeing. “Natalie?”

Melissa caught John's eye briefly, before reaching to cup Chris' face in both hands. “You're safe, Chris. It's okay.”

“I have to...” Chris pushed with his arms, trying to get up on his elbows. John and Melissa held him down, firmly but gently, and he glanced at John. “There's a wolf-”

“It's taken care of,” John said. “You just need to rest now, okay?”

“No- I-I can't. There's a wolf-” Chris pushed up again, but fell back under John's insistent push. He lay on the table, panting.

“Close your eyes, Chris,” Melissa said. She pressed her hand to Chris' forehead. “It's all right. Just rest now.”

Chris dropped off almost immediately, and Melissa met John's eyes.

“Tub?” he asked.

“Tub.” She nodded, rounding the table. She gripped Chris under his arms and heaved while John grabbed his feet.

Together, they managed to carry Chris to the tub of water and gently set him inside it. John just let go of Chris' legs and narrowly avoided a kick to the face as he jerked awake, splashing water everywhere.

“Chris! Chris, calm down-” Melissa held Chris' face steady. “It's us. It's okay.”

Chris' eyes were everywhere, fever bright and panicked. John carefully crawled closer to Chris and reached over the edge of the tub to him. The man shook hard enough to vibrate the tub against the linoleum floors.

“So c-cold-” Chris managed. He tipped his head back and hissed out a tight breath. Melissa hummed sympathetically and pushed a hand through his hair.

“Your fever is dangerously high,” she said. “We have to lower your core temperature. Just bear with us.”

The dunk in the water had seemed to clear his head a bit, and when Chris rolled his eyes to John, there was recognition there. “S-Stiles?”

“He's fine, thanks to you,” John managed around the lump in his throat. He reached for Chris and gripped his forearm. Chris dug his fingers into John's skin, as if trying to stop his shaking by force of his grip. John let him hold, and cupped the back of Chris' neck with his free hand.

“Al-Al-Allison?” Chris chattered.

“She's fine, home with Scott. Stiles is probably with them,” Melissa said. She had Chris' other hand gripped in hers, knuckles white. Chris nodded stiffly, concentrating on not shaking the tub right off the floor.

“I'm not going to lie to you, Chris,” John said. Chris' eyes flicked to him. “But you look like shit.”

Chris cracked a smile at that, pale and thin. “Pot, k-kettle.”

They held him, shaking and shivering, until Melissa declared he was safe to move. Chris actually pushed himself out of the tub, leaning on John for support while Melissa quickly rubbed him down with some towels that smelled like dog.

“At least it's not horse,” Melissa pointed out.

John and Chris made two steps away from the tub before Chris froze. “Bucket-” he said.

With the speed of an efficiently-trained nurse, Melissa had a bucket under Chris' chin as he retched. They both helped him to his knees as he emptied the contents of his stomach and then dry heaved a few times before his stomach finally calmed.

“Jesus.” Chris closed his eyes and sagged against John. John could only rub his back soothingly and support his weight. He wished he could do more.

“I'll be right back,” Melissa said, standing. She brushed the knees of her pants off and left the room.

John kept up rubbing circular patterns in Chris' damp shirt until Deaton opened the door and walked in, a dry change of clothes in hand. He crouched in front of John and offered them. “I have a pull out in the office. I think it would be best if he stayed here tonight.”

“I'll stay with him,” John said. He accepted the clothes and bundled Chris to his feet.

“Ms McCall has also offered to stay. I will be in the lobby if you need me.” Deaton ducked out again.

John ushered Chris, still shaking violently, into Deaton's office and saw the aforementioned pull-out. Chris braced himself against the wall while John efficiently stripped him of his soaked trousers and gently tugged the dry change of clothes onto him.

He kept an eye on Chris while John pulled the cot out, already covered with linens. Chris reached for him when the bed was ready, and John helped him inch to the cot and lie on smooth sheets.

“We're decent,” John called into the examination room.

Melissa appeared at the door, blushing, which threw John. She was a nurse. She had seen skin before.

She caught him staring and held up a can of powder, similar to what Deaton had used on Chris earlier. “I have more to administer later. We should let him sleep, if he can.”

John and Melissa flanked Chris, who was already pretty much passed out on the cot. John sat upright, his back against what remained of the couch, and Chris breathed out dangerously close to his thigh.

He definitely lost time, because the next thing he knew, he was waking up to a sharp pain in his neck from sleeping at an awful angle. John groaned, and shifted slowly. Something warm pressed against his lap, limiting his range of motion. He glanced down and saw Chris had thrown an arm around him in his sleep. His face was pressed into the warm cave that John's body made with the back of the sofa.

Letting his gaze wander, John was surprised to find Melissa lying down at Chris' back, curled up against him on the small cot. The only thing visible were her curls, rolling hilariously from under the top sheet. They had tugged the sheet free in their sleep, and their tangled feet peeked out at the foot of the bed.

John leaned back and shifted to get comfortable. Chris coughed in his sleep, and John smoothed a hand over his temple. His temperature had gone down considerably. They seemed to be out of the woods.

Good.


	5. The Time They Rested Together

_5._

She hated the quiet the most.

Melissa sat between the two beds, her hands clasped together between her knees, fighting the urge to fidget, make noise, shake the men until they _woke up_.

It wouldn't do any good.

But.

Her pager went off and she glanced at the incoming number. Rolling her eyes, she stood and made her way down to the front lobby.

Stiles and Allison were in her face before she could even get a word out. She held up her hand and waited for Stiles' mouth to stop running.

“They're fine. Nothing worse than a few broken ribs,” she said.

Stiles visibly deflated, sinking into the chair behind him. Allison bit her lip. “Can we see them?”

“Not yet. They haven't come out of the anesthesia yet, and they need time to rest. They'll be all right.” Melissa cupped Allison's cheek with her hand. “They'll be okay.”

Allison smiled at the reassurance, and grabbed Stiles' hand. She pulled him upright. “Thank you. For letting us know.”

“Let Scott take you home, I don't want either of you driving right now,” Melissa said in what she hoped was a stern voice. She figured it worked, because Scott materialised from around a corner and put an arm around each of their shoulders. He gently steered them out of the waiting room, into the dark autumn night.

Melissa sighed and checked her watch. She had ten minutes left on her break. Before she could put too much thought into it, she walked back to the room.

Chris and John lay in neighbouring hospital beds, both unconscious on drips.

She entered the room, silently shut the door, and returned to her post in the hard plastic chair between the beds. Derek and his group were out looking for the car that had t-boned the Sheriff's vehicle. According to Deaton, the crime scene had smelled overpoweringly of mistletoe and lemon grass. Supernatural.

Witches, Deaton had said. Most likely witches.

Which, wasn't that the cake? Witches. Werewolves. Demon wolves... Evil Druids... Melissa sighed and slouched in her chair. And she had thought being a single parent was rough.

To her right, John stirred. His eyes fluttered open, and Melissa scooted closer to him with a smile on her face. “Hey, Chief. How do you feel?”

John groaned and tipped his head towards her. “You got me on the good stuff.”

“Oh yeah.” Melissa nodded emphatically. “After a wreck like that, you bet we do.”

He was the one on oxygen, with the cracked ribs and punctured lung. His breath huffed out against the plastic mask, and Melissa could see him desperately trying to figure out what had happened. Melissa reached for his hand and gripped it tightly.

“The kids are all right,” she said. He melted against the pillows in relief, and Melissa smiled. “It was just you and-”

“Chris-” John tensed again, his fingers squeezing hers. “He was-”

“Calm down, John. Don't make me sedate you,” Melissa warned. “You know how much I love making you loopy. Chris is fine. He's right there. Bruises, scrapes. That's it. You got the worst of it.”

She rubbed her thumb over his knuckles as he resettled and closed his eyes. “Are you okay?”

Melissa snorted. “You're the one in the hospital bed, Chief. I'm fine.”

She kept massaging his hand until he drifted off again, only to turn and see Chris' eyes on her. She stood and approached his bedside. “Hey.”

“Hey,” Chris said. He cleared his throat and waved at John. “He's okay?”

“Yes, thanks to you,” Melissa said. “You got him out of the car before it caught fire. You saved his life.”

“He would have done the same,” Chris said. He winced, pushing himself up against the pillows. Melissa helped him, fluffing the pillows up for him.

“He would have,” Melissa agreed. She perched on the edge of his bed and rubbed uninjured skin on his arm. “Are you in pain? Can I get you anything?”

“Such a bedside manner,” Chris teased. A small smiled curved his lips.

“Well. I am a nurse, sir,” Melissa said. “I have a badge and everything.”

“Oh, a badge.” Chris' hand found hers and squeezed her hand. She gripped back, firmly.

“Funny how we got here, isn't it?” Melissa asked, her voice soft.

“I'm pretty sure a group of witches hit our car,” Chris said. “That is not funny at all.”

Melissa snorted and slapped him, gently, and said, “I mean the three of us. Together. We're like the Musketeers.”

“Are you the religious, celibate one?” Chris asked.

“Oh my _god_.” Melissa hit him harder. “Watch it, mister. I'm in charge of your pain meds. And I am _not_ celibate. Just because everyone runs screaming at the mention of a teenage son doesn't mean I haven't had dates.”

Chris frowned and narrowed his eyes at her.

“And- _And_ just because the last man that took me to dinner used me as a hostage to get my son to fall under his freaky mind control powers doesn't mean that I can't have a good date,” Melissa continued, unnerved by his stare. “I know how to have fun outside of... Fur and red eyes and creepy evil magicians... Stop staring at me like that. I'll sedate you.”

“Go out with me,” Chris said.

Melissa's mouth fell open. She closed it, opened it, and closed it again. “Excuse me?”

Chris squeezed her hand. “Go out with me.”

She was a nurse. She could feel his pulse, rabbit-quick, in his palm. He was nervous. She smiled, unable to stop the blush from creeping into her cheeks. “Sure. Um, I can do that.”

“Good. You have to think of the restaurant because we really can't think right now...” Chris said. His eyes slipped closed, the painkillers dragging him back under.

Melissa kept her grip on his hand, hoping he wouldn't forget that conversation.


	6. The Time They Loved Together

_+1_

“Scott! Oh my god, this is not funny. Where is my perfume?”

Melissa threw the door open to Scott's room and he jumped up from his bed. “I don't know!”

“You hid it because you said the smell kept making you gag,” she said. She entered and started picking things off his desk, looking for a hiding place.

“Mom, that's my _stuff_ ,” Scott protested. Melissa ignored him, seeing a sparkle of purple underneath a jersey. She snatched it up with a victorious cry and dangled it in front of him as she left his room. “ _Mom_ , I can smell it already!”

“I haven't even sprayed it,” Melissa called back. “You're almost eighteen. Please act like it.”

The doorbell rang, and Melissa definitely did _not_ squeak like a high school girl on her prom night. “Scott-”

“Got it, Mom.”

Best son ever.

She heard the door open and Scott leaned his head up the staircase. “Your date's here!”

Melissa carefully made her way down the stairs. Heels were awful to walk in, and going down stairs made it ten times worse. When she lifted her eyes to the front door, she froze.

Scott, smiling, held the door open to reveal Chris and John on the stoop, both slickly dressed and ready for... A date.

“Oh,” Melissa breathed.

Chris smiled at her and extended a hand. John waved, his eyes warm and welcoming.

They were sipping wine when a troll rushed the five-star restaurant they had booked. Chris shot it between the eyes five times before it went down. Melissa tore her sequined dress and John covered them with some bogus story about steroids and drug abuse.

By the time the police let them go, they were starving and the only place left open was the pizzeria that catered to the drunk college kids. They ended up crunched around a table, flicking pepperonis at each other and drinking cheap beer, unable to stop laughing.

And when they finally fell through her door (Scott was at Stiles'- hopefully) at near two in the morning, they tumbled into her bed, a mess of arms and legs and shoes.

Yes. Melissa pressed her face to Chris' chest, relishing the heat of John close at her back.

Yes.

This was the start of something good.


End file.
